


Counting the Days

by agoodtuckering



Series: The Thick of It Oneshots and Stories [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Government, Hurt/Comfort, Life is shit business as usual, Minor Character Death, Murder, Post-Goolding Inquiry, Post-Series, Romance, Slow Burn, That's Scottish philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-12 00:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11725515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodtuckering/pseuds/agoodtuckering
Summary: It's been eight months. Malcolm Tucker is out of prison and finally back home. It's time to pick up the pieces and make something of what's left. Sam's there for him.





	1. A Long Time in the Making

**Author's Note:**

> This story came out of nowhere for me. I write Malcolm Tucker on Twitter (for RP) and this story idea hit me. I had to at least try to get it out on paper. It won't be too long, maybe only a few chapters. Bear with me.

Malcolm was nursing a cup of tea when there came a knock at his door. It was well past eight o’clock — far too late to be his sister and his nieces and nephew.

Four days ago, he had been released from prison. Eight months of absolute, pure hell. He was slowly adjusting to “civilian life” again. It would just take some time. Months and months of living on a schedule would do that to you. But it felt like fucking heaven to be home again. He’d just eaten his dinner, was watching a bit of news on the telly. It felt… glorious, to say the least.

At the sound of a knock at his door, he set aside his tea and rose to his feet. The familiar face at the other side of his door came as a right, proper surprise. Sam Cassidy was standing on his stoop, a hopeful expression on her face.

“Sam? What the fuck're you doing here?” he asked in that natural, charming way of his.

They had kept in touch, of course. She’d gotten another job, but she kept in touch with Malcolm. She even came to visit him in jail a handful of times. But seeing her there, on his stoop, was an altogether beautiful sight. He’d fucking missed her.

She laughed. She outright laughed at him. Brushing him aside gently, she came into his flat and closed the door behind her, if only to be polite. “I wanted you to make sure you were okay,” she said quietly.

His small flat was immaculate, just as he’d always kept it. His sister must have come by and cleaned _quite a bit_ before he was released. To her knowledge, his lovely sister — Janet — had been the one to keep his flat in an alright shape while he was away, anyway.

A look of confusion crossed his features, eyes following her into the foyer as she stood there. “That’s fine and all,” he said slowly, “but what’re you doing here at half past eight in the evening? Bit late, isn’t it? London isn’t exactly a safe place, pet.”

She came over to him, gently touching his chest. “I was nervous,” she told him quietly.

This wasn’t the Sam he knew. _What had changed?_

Before he could ask, she continued to speak. “I actually wanted to come by for dinner,” she told him, brows drawn together. “Have you eaten?”

What a fucking whirlwind. He ran a hand through his grayer, longer hair and cast a look down in her direction. A gentle look, something that he’d only ever reserved for her and family.

“I have,” he replied. “I’ve eaten. What’re you so nervous about, you daft bint? It’s just _me._ I’m not some hardened criminal now because I spent some time in prison…”

Their gazes connected and suddenly there was fire crackling, electricity between them. The old Malcolm was still there. Maybe he’d gotten some of his old self back, since he’d been in prison. Maybe he’d finally gotten the break from politics that he deserved — however fucking terrible the reasons had been. He was _home_ now.

She leaned in closer, two hands finding his chest and brushing along the fleece jumper he wore. It made his eyebrows draw together, his cheeks flush, and his lips part — as if he wanted to say something but he couldn’t find the words. “For two-hundred and forty-three days I’ve thought about this,” she whispered quietly, reaching up to lay her lips on his.

It was a long, slow kiss. Something about the way she’d said the days — counted them out, even — caught him somewhere deep, somewhere personal.

For so long, for so many _years,_ he’d loved this woman. She felt so out of his realm. So out of his depth. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

His lips began to return the kiss, eyes falling shut, even as his brows flew upwards in utter, complete disbelief. “Sam—” Her name was a tender whisper, gentler than she’d ever heard from his lips. The delicacy behind it almost broke her heart. Two masculine, pale hands rose to cup her cheeks, to draw her closer as he drank her in, warm lips parting for her kiss.

She backed him up to the wall, relishing in the way he so easily gave in for her. Malcolm Tucker was all brimstone and fire and control — and yet he was submitting to her as readily and effortlessly as could be. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought it could be this way.

That could only mean one thing — that he yearned and ached for this as _deeply_ as she also did. That they wanted each other. That they craved one another beyond words. That he’d probably, at least even once, thought about this during his long months in jail.

It took her days to come here. Days to find her courage. Days to tell herself that she _had_ to tell him how much she loved him. _Days._

 _You're kissing your old boss, you're kissing your old boss, you're kissing your old boss._ The words seemed to ring through her mind. _And he's kissing you back. He’s kissing you back. Hands, lips, teeth, tongue. Oh, god. He’s kissing you back._

As if on cue, his hands were suddenly all over her and her only response was to moan. She’d only ever dreamt of feeling those rough fingers along her warm skin in that way. Cupping her, holding her, _cradling her._

He had protected her from beginning to end. From the day she began working for him, to the day she’d lost her grandmother, the day he was fired, the day he fucked over Nicola Murray. Every day. Every. Single. Day.

Throughout all of it — _as reckless as he was at times, stupidly so_ — he still protected her. It was how he told her that he loved her.

And now it was his turn to moan, as she rubbed their bodies together and wound her arms about his frail shoulders — and really, it worried her, how much weight he’d lost in prison. He was always quite lithe, and he always had been, but he was far older-looking now. Frailer. Skinnier. So much thinner. And she hated it with every fiber of her being.

Something changed in that moment. She felt it, but couldn’t explain it.

“Sam—” It was a groan against her lips, and she was afraid to draw away for fear of breaking the spell. All she could do was press her body to his and mumble, “Don’t ask me to stop, please. I’ve wanted you for years. Even if it’s just this once, let me have you. I know you want this, too. Just wanna make you feel good, let you feel alive again.”

There was a pause as he drew away, despite being wedged between her and the wall. “Sam,” he urged her, “stop.” It was a plea. Something about it yanked her back to the present and she pulled away as if she’d been stuck by fire.

“Just stop,” he said weakly. And for a moment, he sagged against the wall in his hallway. The spark of his old self that she’d seen earlier was seemingly gone now, replaced by a much older, wearier look and a trembling hand as it ran across his aged features. But the desire _was_ there, crackling in the air between them like a static electricity. Her eyes fell briefly to the unmistakable bulge in his denim trousers, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

_He wanted her._

What was the problem?

She just stood there, awaiting some sort of response. Something. _Anything._

“We shouldn’t do this,” he began slowly, eyes bravely rising to her features after a few soft breaths. “We shouldn’t. We could just pretend this never happened. Blame it on exhaustion, yeah? Blame it on us just being… happy I’m home. Happy I’m out of fucking prison, right? Go home, Sam. It’s late.”

After the long months without him, she nearly shattered on the spot. What was his fucking problem? Why was he being this way? They’d known one another for over ten years. And throughout it all, they’ve loved one another. Sod him for denying it.

Her eyes grew hot and teary, a look of utter disbelief passing over her features. He _almost_ reached out for her but eventually thought better of it.

“I don’t want to blame this on being tired, Malcolm,” she said as she found her voice, despite the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to leave. The last place I want to be is home, all alone. I want to be here. I want to be where you are.”

The crease in his brow was obvious. It stung. She’d hurt him. Even the Mighty Malcolm Tucker had his soft spots. And apparently all of them involved her.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he told her. “I’m sorry I kissed you back. Now go home. I’m sorry.” There was something in his eyes. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it but it was dark and she guessed it was self-loathing. Was he angry with himself? Was he feeling like he wasn’t _good enough_ for a lass like her? Well, she had a thing or two to say about _that._

“What did I do?” she asked him, afraid to move away and afraid to leave. “Do you feel like you aren’t enough? Is this because you were in prison? Is this because… Oh, I don’t fucking know. Malcolm, just talk to me.”

He opened the door. “Fucking Christ,” he mumbled. _“Leave.”_

Never once in their many long years had Malcolm _ever_ taken that tone with her. He spat venom at everyone else. He was volcanic and torrential with _everyone else,_ but never with her. And in that moment, it occurred to her — he really might not have wanted this.

 _Maybe he didn’t want her anymore._ Not like he used to, anyway.

Her lower lip began to wobble. But Sam — oh, strong little Samantha — she left with her head held high, even if her dignity was in tatters. She didn’t look back at him once, didn’t even flinch as he slammed his flat door in her wake.

He simply stood there, back against his closed door, and allowed himself a long, low groan. What the _fuck_ just happened between them? He’d dreamt of kissing her for years. But when it finally happened, _something_ inside of him shattered. He was _terrified_ of disappointing her. _Terrified_ that she would see him for the weary old man that he’d become.

He _wouldn’t_ be able to fix this, and he _certainly_ wouldn’t be able to explain his feelings to her. And what’s more — he had a feeling she wouldn’t be coming back.


	2. And She Just Kept Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam begins to worry when Malcolm won't text her back. But then, as she's leaving work, she finds a visitor on the stoop at her office.

For Sam, her night passed at a painfully dull pace. She left Malcolm’s small, cozy flat in quite a state and nearly ran to get a cab and head home. It was quiet — _too quiet_ — and she sat with her phone on her queen-size mattress in front of her for what felt like ages, the television droning quietly in the background.

It was Hell. Pure, honest Hell. She wanted nothing more than to go back in time and rewind the events of the night. She thought, maybe, by telling him how she felt it would soothe his nerves. Apparently that wasn’t the case.

He kissed her back — _fervidly._ What made him stop? What made him _want_ to stop?

_What had she done wrong?_

And why oh why couldn't she get the way his hands had felt out of her fucking head? The way his lips felt on hers? The way he'd moaned as she rolled her hips against his? The desire behind his responses? The perfection of it all? She was  _fucked._

When no text messages or no calls came through, she eventually fell asleep atop her duvet and just barely managed to snag the telly remote to turn off whatever horrible news broadcast was buzzing away on the too-small-for-her-liking flat-screen.

For so long, she’d thought about this night. She’d thought about seeing him again, wondering how long his hair would be or if he let his scruff go with a laziness that she’d rarely ever seen from him. She wondered how his arms would feel around her again. How it would _be._

But the reality of it was too terrible for words. He was too thin, too gaunt, still wearing that defeated look that he had been the day they’d parted, excluding the in-between visits in prison. She wanted to be his shelter from the storm — any storm, no matter how terrible it might be.

In the morning, she did only thing before readying herself for work. She sent Malcolm a text:

**_I’m sorry._ **

**_S x_ **

There never came a reply, which, if anything, only made her heart sink all the more. Not that she was expecting one, but a response of any kind — even a _“fuck off”_ — would have been nice. Just to know that he was alright. She was _worried._

She left early in the morning for her entirely too normal (even a bit boring) secretarial job, taking lunch a bit later than normal and walking to her favorite coffeehouse for a light, sweet cuppa and a scone and a little something for her new boss as well. Just to be nice. The man’s wife was always baking her chocolate chip biscuits and various other treats. It was the least she could do.

It was when she was leaving that night that something startled her. She found Malcolm out on the stoop, as if he’d been waiting and wondering if he could knock on the office’s door. Had her brother given him her work address?

“Malcolm—” She froze, fingers hovering over her coat lapels where she’d been fixing them. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Good god, that man’s mouth had rubbed off on her over the years. Among other things — _like his fiery temper._

“I’m sorry, alright?” It was a soft response. Soft and muttered in that Scottish brogue of his, a gentle lilt, something that seemed to have melted her.

She paused before descending the steps onto the cold London street, a hand firmly holding the strap of her purse. “What are you sorry for, exactly? You don’t have a single thing to apologize for.”

There was something clipped and cold in her tone, a result of hours upon hours of worry and a terrible, sleepless night. His fault, really. _Well,_ and hers.

He wasn’t good at this. She could tell. He never had been, though. And standing there, on the street, dressed in a gray suit without a tie, she felt oddly out of place beside him. Casual Malcolm was not something she was used to. Malcolm in a gray prison outfit wasn’t… particularly pleasant, either. But this — this was _dangerous_ because her eyes were lingering and she couldn’t seem to be able to help herself.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he suddenly said on a windy gust of breath. “We shouldn’t… I shouldn’t… You know… Ah, fuck everything. I can’t seem to say what’s on my mind.”

For a fleeting moment, they met each other’s gazes. He looked as if he may kiss her, she looked as if she may ask him to, but her phone began to ring and she cast a quick glance down towards it.

_Fuck._

_Her boss._

“I can’t do this right now,” she told Malcolm, something in her heart constricted by the realization that they might _never_ do this.

She let her phone go into voicemail, prolonging the agony of whatever was to come on a message. Or perhaps an email. Then she glimpsed Malcolm’s way and said, “Whatever you came here to say, maybe… it’s just best if you don’t. You were right. We should have just pretended last night never happened. We could blame it on exhaustion, never talk about it again.” She took a small step closer, awkwardly patting his chest and adding, “But it’s a shame, you know. I meant every word that I said to you. I’m just sorry it wasn’t enough.”

_I’m sorry I wasn’t enough._

The words hung in the air like smoke, eventually dissipating as she turned to go. Her dignity was in tatters and she _didn’t_ want him to say one more word about it. Not unless he planned to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. Maybe drag her home and make love to her like he should have last night.

But no — instead, he just let her walk away. That was the problem with Malcolm, wasn’t it? He let everyone just _walk away._ That’s what ended his marriage all those years ago. He let her just walk away.

And she kept walking.


	3. Where Did All The Fight Go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm finds himself with a new job. He invites Sam out to dinner one night. She has some interesting new for him, though.

Things changed incredibly quickly. Life always seemed to go that way, didn’t it? Stagnate for a while, then there would come a plateau of some sort. For Malcolm, it was his new job. He took up the incredibly daunting task of sending his resume out, as if everyone _didn’t_ already know who he was. He took an online job at a local London political column. It was a smaller company, a gentler company. But he would bring them good, _dangerous press._ Gave him free rein to air everyone’s dirty laundry out, that did. And with good pay and decent benefits.

How about that? Malcolm Tucker, a new political columnist. And yet he found himself fucking loving the job. The thing was, he had enough money to retire. He needed something to keep him busy, though. Something to keep his brain working. And what’s more — he knew where the bodies were buried and although it was late in coming, revenge against those who had trespassed against him was still in the works. _He would make it happen._

He needed it to happen. He needed that to move on and let go.

He’d spent eight months in jail planning this all out. It was only fair to his sanity that he try and accomplish a few of the tasks he’d planned during those long months.

But nothing felt right — _not without Samantha Cassidy by his side._

He missed her. Longed for her. Needed her by his side. A whole two months had passed since the scene at his flat. With every passing day, he found it harder and harder to try and pick up the phone to call her. He found it hurting worse and worse. Every night, his bed was empty beside him. Every morning, it was still cold. Every meal, there was an empty space beside him at his small kitchen table. Every evening, there was a vacant spot beside him on the sofa as he watched a bit of news on the telly.

Everything felt _wrong_ without her. What was the point?

It’s almost comical — to go a decade with someone by your side, to work alongside them, and then to lose them and spend time in prison, only to have _everything_ change when the time is served and you’re free. To find yourself aching inside and out, wishing that person was in your arms. To feel like shite, knowing that person doesn’t realize just how much you love them.

It happened one night when he could no longer bear the silence or the emptiness in his flat. He reached for his cell phone and texted her.

**_Feel like having dinner at that Italian place you love so much?_ **

**_We should catch up. Been busy._ **

**_M_ **

He sent the text, bravely putting his phone aside in favor of cleaning his flat a bit and tidying things up for his sister to visit the following day. The mood that came over him, depressed and sullen, was so _unlike_ him. He was always ready to erupt. Always fire and brimstone and pure, unadulterated rage. But this feeling of defeat — _no,_ that wasn’t like him at all.

There came a reply an hour later.

**_Sure, I’m free tonight._ **

**_Was wondering what you had been up to._ **

**_See you at 7?_ **

**_S x_ **

He had a bit of hope with the kiss she finished that text off with. But it wasn’t much. It certainly wasn’t enough to lull him from the awful mood he was lost in.

Instead, he focused on something else. He wandered to the bedroom, deciding to dress nicely for Sam that night. He found a dark, navy suit. Something he could wear without a tie, something casual, something _dashing._

He had no expectations, only a deep yearning to mend whatever had fractured between them, even if it only meant them resuming an old, close friendship and going on in that way. Because, in all honesty, he was happy to have her in his life in any way that he could. The truth of the matter was that he _knew_ he wasn’t worthy of Sam Cassidy. She was too good for him.

He wasn’t worthy of her time, her love, her affection. And the more time that went by, the less he thought about what happened in his foyer that lonely night. The more time that passed, the more he thought of it as a dream. It didn’t feel like a memory. It felt too _surreal._

Why would she ever have done, or said, the things she had? To him, no less? To someone that was guilty of something terrible? To someone who served time, in a way, for ending an unstable man’s life? Tickel was the tip of the iceberg. Karma had found its way to him, all in due time.

Karma always did its work. Sometimes it just took time.

And that night he went out to meet her at Frankie’s Restaurant near Number 10, where they had spent many a long night after working together, and he asked for their usual table. He shot the breeze with the owner for a while, had a good laugh, remembered what it felt like to be _alive_ for a while. Alive and happy.

He knew the moment she came breezing into the restaurant from the side door, the door she _always_ used for some reason. She was brushing a few stray, wispy strands of hair from a winded, reddened cheek and tucking them behind an equally pink ear. She shivered a bit from the evening wind and came wandering over to the table.

If only for her sake, he wore a smile. She saw right through it, he knew, but she returned the gentle grin regardless. “To what do I owe such a pleasure?” she asked him, a brow arching as she shed her jacket, a silky scarf, and sat down across from him.

“There isn’t one,” he admitted quietly. “Just missed you.” Bravely, his eyes rose to her features. What he saw there was confusion. She softened a moment or so later, realizing that his words were sincere and truthful. Then she reached for a menu, even though they always ordered the same thing anyway.

He scratched his ear gently, then reached for the glass of wine in front of him. His eyes skirted across her torso, from hair to belly, admiring her in the subtlest of ways. Her hair was down today, soft and dark and recently trimmed. She wore a sweater, a necklace that had once been her mother’s dangling around her neck.

Without a second thought, he said, “There is _one thing._ I wanted to apologize. Properly. Because I’m sorrier than you could ever know. And I’d like to maybe right a few wrongs, if you’d let me.”

Her breath caught. It was unmistakable. He wasn’t sure if it was in a bad way, or perhaps a good one. He wasn’t good at _this._ How long had it been since a woman had loved him? How long had it been since he’d cared this deeply for someone? He hadn’t loved his ex-wife _this much._ Not even close. And perhaps that was why they hadn’t worked out, in the end.

“Malcolm, don’t,” she whispered softly. Her eyes rose, lips parted. She looked beautiful there and he wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to kiss her. To show her that he _could be_ the man she wanted him to be. He never felt good enough for her but perhaps that could change, in time.

Then her words sunk in. She said, _‘Don’t.’_   Why?

“Don’t do this right now,” she continued on. Her hand found his from across the table, as he ran his index digit along the stem of his wineglass. She caressed his thumb for a fleeting, all-too-brief moment before her voice carried across the small, plaid cloth-covered table. “It’s a little late, don’t you think? I know that look. I know you so much better than you think, Malcolm. And perhaps you should have said all this a month ago. You’re a bit too late now.”

 _What did that mean?_ His throat felt like it was closing up. His eyes burned. He felt _raw._

“What does that mean?” he croaked out, despite how terrible he sounded at the moment. She softened — _again —_ and he found himself comforted, if only for a moment, before she continued. “I’m seeing someone, Malcolm,” she said rather abruptly. “I haven’t been for very long now. It just sort of _happened_ one night. And he’s good to me. He’s a friend of my boss’.”

He deflated in that moment. “Oh.” It was all he could manage to mutter aloud. So he was too late. He understood that now.

“Well,” he said quietly, eyes anywhere but on her, “I hope yer happy, then, love. You deserve to be.” If it was such a weight off his chest, just to know she was with someone who was better than him, then why did it have to hurt so much? Why did it have to feel like someone was choking the life out of him?  
  
Still, despite his inner emotions and turmoil, he offered her a smile. She deserved this. She deserved his consent and his _acceptance_ of this. If nothing else, he owed it to her. “I hope he treats you well,” he added a few beats later.

He was thankful as a waiter came over, ready to take their orders. She ordered a glass of white wine, they ordered their usual eggplant pizza and a house salad with olives on the side — because she bloody despised the things and he _loved_ them.

Their meal felt all-too-natural, their conversation felt all-too-casual, and her eyes felt all-too-cautious and knowing on him. She knew. _He_ knew. And there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it. He was _too late._

That night, as he walked her to her front stoop — having insisted on making sure she made it home safe, despite the extra hour’s trip for him — he found himself at a loss for words. He knew something then that hadn’t occurred to him before. Perhaps because it didn’t seem plausible earlier.

“This is the last we’ll be seeing of each other, isn’t it?” he asked, standing on the cement sidewalk as she ascended the few steps to her door. She turned, brows rising in surprise at his words. She began to speak but he stopped her, raising a hand — a much gentler version of the technique she’d often seen him use on politicians in the past. “You came tonight,” he said. “That was enough of a sign. You told me _not to bother._ You're smiling right now. You're doing that sad smile thing that I hate so much because it fucking breaks my heart.”

He would have been content, in some way, to remain friends with her. It didn’t feel like she wanted that. How could he fix something that she didn’t want anymore, herself?

She didn’t say anything for a terrifyingly long moment. And when she replied, her voice was barely above a whisper. There was no strength behind it.

“I know my place, Malcolm,” she said to him in a soft, English lilt, a hand finding his chest gently. “The work comes first, right? Congratulations on the new job, by the way. But, you forget how well I know you. Now that you’re back into politics, in any capacity, it’s the work that comes first. And I know my place. You won’t have time for… _this.”_ She gestured between them with a petite finger. “And… you might not realize this, but you need time to _heal._ That fight in you that I used to admire for so long is gone. And until you find yourself again, no one will be able to love you. Because you don’t feel good enough for anyone, and believe me, that isn’t the case. You’re an amazing man, despite all the shite you’ve put me through over the years.”  

He was listening to her, swallowing thickly and fighting to blink back the emotion eating away at him. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. So in the end, he said nothing, and she kept going.

“I should tell you this, Malcolm,” she murmured tenderly. “I should have told you years ago. I should have told you the night you were fired. Maybe I should have told you the night you found out that you were going to prison. I’m sorry.”

There was a treacherous moment where she put her keys away and then spoke. “I have loved you for so long,” she said plainly. “I don’t know how it happened, or when it started. I just always have. And it’s a terrible kind of love. It hurts. You hurt me that night at your flat. You pushed me away. I get it, though. I get it. But tonight — tonight you didn’t even fight it. I told you that I was with someone and there was just _no fight_ left in you. The man I fell in love with all those years ago would have told me to take a chance on him, instead. But you just _accepted it._ Do you see now?”

He felt broken in that moment. Broken, a shell of what he once was, all those years ago. And with nothing left, he said what was _on his mind._

“Maybe what I needed all along was right here in front of me,” he said softly, “just fucking waiting for me to let her love me. Because I am ready. Maybe there’s no fight left because I’m sick of losing, pet. Maybe I need you to help me heal. I was afraid that night. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He was bare to her now. Utterly. Might as well say it, no?

“I love you, too,” he murmured, breaths catching in his throat at the intensity of his sudden heartache. He deserved it, though, didn’t he? He’d fucked over a lot of people in his time.

She took a moment to admire the face staring back at her, the peppered, graying hair, the dapper suit, the clean-shaven cheeks, the eyes that held every emotion and every word he couldn’t say. She’d missed that face for so long. And she’d always miss it. She’d miss it forever. Because he was the love of her life.

A sad smile found her lips again, a strong but small hand gently patting his chest. She leant down on the step to press a soft kiss to his cheek, taking in the scent of his cologne, his spicy aftershave, his shampoo, everything that was so _uniquely_ Malcolm Tucker, and told herself not to cry. _Not now._

“I can’t tell,” she whispered, “if you’re afraid to lose _me_ or if you’re just afraid of _being alone._ Goodnight, Malcolm. Take care of yourself for me, please.”

She half-expected him to stop her. Her heart cried out for it. She wanted to scream for it. But instead, he let her go. He let her leave him there on her front stoop. He didn’t even protest. _How could he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, I do promise this'll eventually have a happy ending. Eventually. Bear with me until then.


	4. Black in the Limelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm's playing political jenga. He's leaving Number 10 one afternoon, after an important meeting, when a slew of reporters confront him. One in particular, though, asks a question about Sam that takes him completely off-guard. Perhaps that's how he finds himself on her front stoop.

The Great Malcolm Tucker was back in the limelight again, back where he enjoyed being. His column was a success. Many a politician were caught in the line of fire, including one Dan Miller who eventually decided to step down from his position as Future Prime Minister. Too much press could be _very_ bad, which Miller had soon learned.

The only man who was barely mentioned, in any way, was Ollie Reeder. Call it stupidity, but Malcolm felt some sort of warmth for the younger man. They’d been through so much together. When Dan Miller left, Ollie found a shred of loyalty and left as well, with the majority of his dignity intact. He never became the raging, pitiful alcoholic that Malcolm told him he would. No, he left well before then. And now he had a far better job, working as a tech-savy PA of sorts to a local attorney, learning as much as he can in the process.

During those eight months in prison, Ollie even came to visit him a few times. Shocking, that. But Malcolm was thankful for the visits, even as awkward as they were.

But the job...

Political _vengeance._

Diplomatic, bureaucratic _assassination._

That’s all that this ever was. Malcolm Tucker was a man of his word — _for the most part, these days_ — and he’d told everyone they weren’t through with him yet the day he’d been found guilty in front of the eyes of his peers, his lawyer, a jury, and a fat, pompous judge.

He was back in the political limelight, back in the news again, back in everyone’s lives again in the worst of ways.

Months passed since he’d seen Sam, and they were fucking miserable and sad. He kept himself busy, though, with _work._ No, correction. He was busy destroying other people’s lives. Those who had destroyed _him_ , anyway. And he was finally finding himself able to move on, slowly but surely.

One day, as he was standing outside Number 10 from a rather important visit, surrounded by hacks upon hacks, he heard something terrible. A journalist thrust his recorder in Malcolm’s direction and said, “Mr. Tucker, do you have anything to say about your old PA’s accusations, of being violated by a journalist? What do you have to say about Sam Cassidy claiming such a thing? Do you believe her? Do you still see her, on occasion, or was it just a professional relationship between you two?”  
  
It felt like someone had punched him right in the gut. He stared, shocked, his jaw hanging slack. He couldn’t even speak. Violated? Molested? Was she raped? Where the fuck was this so-called boyfriend of hers when she needed him most?  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, pushing away from the hoard of hacks and making for the street. There was an uproar behind him, following after him. All he heard was a chorus of loud, “Mr. Tucker’s” as he went, but couldn’t give two shites.

He all but ran to hail a cab, rushing half into the street when he got to one. “Blimey,” the driver said, stopping and unlocking the door for Malcolm. “In a rush, sir? Where to?”  
  
Malcolm, utterly unphased, rambled off the address to him. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at her flat. The lights were off, from what he could see outside, and suddenly it was as if his throat was closing up.

Was she okay? Was she hurt? Did the bastard _really_ rape her? Was it all a lie, everything the journalist said? What was the truth?

In the moment, he’d never felt such a rush of love and _need_ in his life. She was certainly the one. She was the love of his life. The one he’d regret losing for the rest of his life. The one he was _meant_ to love. The one he should have told so, so long ago.

Sod everything. _He_ didn’t matter right now. _She_ did.

He flew from the cab after tossing quid at the driver, then ran across the cobblestone sidewalk to where her door was. He knocked furiously, chest heaving from all the running. He loosened his tie, eyebrows rising in anticipation.

Sam answered the door rather quickly, much to his own surprise. And her expression was one of pure shock, especially at his dishevelled state. “Malcolm?” She was unsure, surprised. Bewildered, really.

He placed a hand on the door, not-so-subtly looking her over to make sure she was alright. “Are you okay, Sam? Please tell me you are...”

Then it hit her. He must have heard. _Of course he must have._ The man was surrounded by bloodthirsty hacks. “I’m fine,” she said slowly, still too hesitant to step aside and let him in.

“Don’t lie to me, please,” he said hurriedly. A petite hand rose, her eyebrows drawn together. Then she said, “Look, Malc. I’m not sure what you heard but I really _am_ okay. I was at a party last week and this man made a grab for my arse. A punched him. He might’ve gotten a bit grabby. It’s alright. He _might_ be singing Soprano for the rest of his life, though, and he’ll be broke by the time I’m finished with him in court. I won’t lie about that. But I’m okay. He’s the one who got hurt, not me.”

He froze, all-too-embarrassed about his initial reaction.

“Jesus Christ,” he said slowly, a hand rubbing at his temple. Whilst his eyes were on the cement ground, on the step into her flat, he felt a hand gently grasp his shoulder. Her fingers were warm, gentle, tender. She caught his attention, saying, “I’m okay, Malcolm. _I promise.”_

His eyes rose again, bravely meeting hers. His were teary, hers were filled with concern and confusion. The words were out of his lips before he even attempted to stop them. “Fuck, I love you,” he blurted out. “I love you so much, Sam. Even if it doesn’t matter. You're all I ever fucking think about. Do you even fucking  _understand?_ I thought I was gonna have to kill some bastard. I was… _terrified.”_

The admission left her stunned, fingers losing their grip on his shoulder. Why did it matter so much? Why did _she_ matter so much? There was a fire in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in so, so long. Since before the Goolding Inquiry. Since before he’d left Number 10. Since aeons ago.

_She saw the old Malcolm again, in those few seconds._

That is, before his lips were on hers. He needed it. He just needed this one last kiss and then maybe he could leave, put this behind him, and be happy for her. He needed to feel her close just this one last time, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.

_One last time._

What was supposed to end so quickly turned into a battle for dominance over a kiss. She was taller than him this way, still standing on the step into her flat whilst he was on the ground level. She seized the opportunity to wind her arms about his lithe shoulders, to pull him closer and press their torsos together, even as she protested.

“Malcolm, we shouldn’t—” The words were cut short by another, hungrier kiss. Her knees gave way but he was there, and he’d always be there, to catch her. He’d never been so sure of _anything_ in his life. He was _hers._

He lifted her into his arms with an ease that thoroughly shocked her. It shocked them both. He slipped into the flat, shutting the door behind them. She was eager, needy, and winding her thighs around his narrow hips.

It was there — _that powerful chemistry, that affection, that love, that lust._ She didn’t know what to do with it all. She smiled against his lips, absolutely stumbling over her words. “What are we doing, Malcolm? What are we fucking doing?”

He fell to the sofa with her, collapsing into her and leaning up on his forearm to keep from crushing her with his weight, as slight as it was. Their bodies pressed together and it stole her breath away. And his.

“I should’ve had you on my desk years ago. _Why didn’t I?_ What stopped me?”

His response took her breath away. She yanked at his tie, loosening it in the process and beginning to untie it. “I bought this tie for you, years ago,” she mumbled, her teeth tugging at his lower lip without any care or mercy. Once he was rid of it, she heard him reply back, “I know you did."   
  
Furious. That’s what their hands were. And his were everywhere. He pushed her blouse up higher, needing to feel warm skin against his rough fingers.

“I’m in a fucking relationship,” she finally mumbled. And really, she probably should have said the words _minutes_ ago when this all began. He laughed, chuckled almost, against her lips and murmured in reply. “I don’t fucking care, sweetheart. Might’ve cared months ago but I don’t now. You wouldn’t be undressing me right now if you cared about _him_ , anyway. So why should I?”

She gave him a good shove but her lips were attacking his again afterward. Then she dared to reply. “Because he’s a good guy, you know. He’s nice. Caring. He’s there for me when I need him to be. Shaun’s nothing like you, you dimwitted fucktwat.”

He laughed. It was a _real_ sound. He threw his head back and laughed. “Nice one,” he replied. “You're sounding more and more like me every day. Doesn’t that seem alarming to you?”

She shoved him again. This time, though, they were both caught off-guard as he lost his balance above her. He went falling to the plush, carpeted floor and she landed on top of him there. It knocked the wind right out of his lungs and a flurry of colorful Scotch curses followed, along with a gasp, to feel her pelvis against his.

“You're dangerous, lass,” he grumbled to her, wincing and moving the hardcover book he’d landed on. He tossed it aside, onto the sofa, and sighed. He felt all reason go right out of the cracked window in that tiny living room, however, when she reached lower and cupped what was making itself rather known between his thighs — _a hard cock._

“Sam—” He couldn’t even speak. The name came rushing past his lips in a whoosh of breath, neck arching for a moment as she pressed her lips to his jugular. As if he completely, utterly crumbled for her in that exact moment.

“Why now?” she asked, shocked with herself and shocked with everything that was happening between them. “Why we are doing this now, and not months ago? Why didn’t…” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to speak her mind. Unable to swallow the lump in her throat.

He cupped her cheek as she made quick work of unclasping his belt buckle, deft fingers popping his trouser buttons open afterward. “Because… Because it just took me some time to realize what was really important," he told her. 

There was a pause, her expression softening as she watched him for a moment.

“And what’s that, hm? What’s really important to you? I’ve loved you for so long,” she mumbled quietly. “I worked for you for a decade, Malcolm, and I loved you for every second of it. It was an accident. I just started _feeling that way_ one day and I couldn’t stop it once it began.”

She stilled, her hands touching his jaw and holding him close for a moment. Out it came, like a broken dam, and once it started it couldn’t be stopped. “I love you,” he said hurriedly. “I love you and it hurts. It wears away at me every day to be without you. I’ve missed you since the day I was booked and sent to prison. I thought maybe I was doing the right thing, because you deserve better, by being with someone else and not me, but I don’t fucking care anymore. _I want you.”_

Their clothes were gone in minutes. They undressed one another, both no longer really caring about the consequences of their actions. They just wanted — no, _needed_ one another.

He was so hard, achingly hard, and she was so ready for him. It felt like heaven to slip inside of her for that first time, to bury himself to the hilt, to feel her nails rake down his back.

Everything inside of him screamed how they should have done this so long ago. Every fiber of his being belonged to her. Every thought, every cell, every molecule. Why hadn’t he told her years ago?

She rode him hard and fast, with urgency and impatience. That’s what waiting for nearly a decade did to someone. That’s what it felt like. It felt like they couldn’t get enough of one another, no matter how hard they tried.

She grasped his shoulders, the pillow by his head on the carpeted floor. His hands trailed along her spine, down to the base of it, grappled for her backside. He gently caressed everything he could possibly reach, palming at her breasts and teasing her rosy-pink nipples, trying to find what drove her utterly insane and propelled her over the edge.

He needed to _feel_ her. Needed to touch her everywhere. He was so tactile, as she soon discovered. And oh, she adored it. She didn’t care what he touched, though, truthfully. As long as he was the one doing it, it didn’t matter. She’d yearned for those hands to map out her body for so long.

Their highs were intense. They found their peak together, climaxing in one another’s arms and clinging to what little sanity remained. This evening had been far too surreal to even begin to explain, not that she wanted to think it over.

And when it was all over, when they were lying spent in one another’s arms on the sofa — where they’d relocated to, sometime during the lovemaking — he fell asleep beneath her. He dozed off, finally at peace and utterly _at home_ in her arms.

She was in awe of it all. Awestruck by how comfortable he was with her, by the ease he suddenly felt with her. By the snug, cozy arms that were wound around her. The cheek that was resting atop her head. The soft snores. Everything _him._

But what would she do about Shaun, her _boyfriend?_ She felt dirty, really. She was a loyal woman. She always had been. Look what Malcolm had made her do... Not that the fault lie entirely with him, mind. She knew that. And the worst part? She didn’t regret a single thing about it.

She fell asleep that night, lost in his arms, and curled up at his side. _Nothing else mattered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so long. I hope it was a good one.


	5. This Love Aches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm tells Sam that she has a decision to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this was only supposed to have five chapters but oh well. Look at me, making everything harder and longer than it has to be. So sorry. My muse for these two is just about on fire, so we’ll see how it goes... By the way, I also just wanted to say, thank you so so so much for all the lovely reviews. The well thought out, kind, wonderful comments on my stories are what make me want to keep writing. Because they let me know how you guys are enjoying (or not enjoying) my stories or chapters. It all really means a lot to me to have the feedback. Thank you so much.

When Malcolm awoke in the morning, it was to a sore back and shaky thighs. Everything  _ached._  Groaning slightly, he lifted his head to cast a look downward. He was, well — _naked._ Utterly naked. There was a blanket draped across his thighs and hips and his head was smooshed into a sofa cushion. The pillow smelled like Sam's shampoo, her perfume,  _her_. It was like torture. He breathed slowly, eyes briefly fluttering and falling shut as he told himself to relax.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he heard a voice from somewhere off in the distance, presumably the kitchen. Wait… Where was he?  _Not home,_ that's for sure.  
  
The night before came rushing back to him. He gasped softly, eyes darting towards Sam, who was standing in the doorway. She was wearing her flannel shirt from the night before and nothing else but a concerned expression. Did she expect him to leave, or was she worried about other things? Shaun, maybe?

His only response was to moan sleepily, rolling onto his side and drawing the blanket up higher, all the way to his neck. With a laugh, she came over and took a seat at his side. All long, pale legs and gentle hands. She pushed a curl from his temple before asking, “Okay?”

He cast his eyes up at her, suddenly feeling a bit shy. Sam was here, Sam was  _touching_ him. She wasn’t kicking him out of her flat. In fact, quite the opposite. She was playing with his soft, mussed tresses, brushing a few curls behind his ear.

“Did last night really happen?” he asked softly, his fingers trailing lower to land on her knee, just holding her. That was all that he needed, the bit of contact between them. He brushed a scar there on her kneecap with a tender thumb — _something she had gotten from falling from a bike when she had been much younger_ — and smiled softly at the memory of her regaling the tale to him ages ago.

“Yeah, it did,” she told him, drawing her hand away and gazing down at his. It was so soothing, to feel his skin on hers, to watch him nudge himself closer. He craved that warmth and closeness just as much as she did, and always had. But then her face fell. “Malcolm, I don’t know what to do.”

She almost recoiled from his touch then, more than likely due to guilt. It was written all across her sleepy features. He understood the feeling. He wished she wasn't in a relationship. He wasn't the cheating type, nor was he the kind of bloke who made others cheat behind their significant others’ backs.

He sat up slowly, fishing around tiredly to find his Calvin Klein shorts. He began dressing, shucking into his dress trousers and the white button down he’d worn. He shoved his tie into his pocket, stopping for a moment to linger at her side. “You dunno what to do,” he repeated softly. 

A silence fell between them before he eventually continued. “We slept together,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “If you  _really_ loved him, would you have done that? Last night should’ve fucking happened a long time ago, love. I was just too fuckin’ stubborn, and I’m sorry. I don’t regret it, but I’m sorry about Shaun.”

His hands tentatively rose to cup her cheeks, bringing her eyes to his. “Listen to me, Sam. I love you, and nothin’ is ever gonna change that. Nothin’. I know ye love me, too. I know ye do. You’ve said so enough times. You’ve… showed me. I know you do. Last night wasn’t about lust, you know that, right? It wasn’t. But I can’t make this decision fer you.” 

Malcolm Tucker had  _never_ been an emotional man, at least not on the outside. Of course, she had seen brief glimpses to the contrary over the years. But right then, right there with her, he revealed more than he could have in the ten years they were friends.

Then he kissed her lips. Softly, slowly. A thumb caressed her cheek as he did so, and he whispered to her upon drawing away. “Last night I made up my mind,” he told her. “I know I'm not good enough for you, but I'm not afraid anymore. All I can do is try to be the man you think of me as. ‘Cause you deserve it. I'm not getting any younger and I'm sick of being lonely when what I want is  _right here_ in front of me.”

He drew away with a soft sigh, obviously reluctant to let her go but knowing it was for the best. “I don't want to force you into anything. I can't. I'm just telling you how  _I_ feel. I would do anything for you. Even if it meant forgetting about this. Anything to make you happy, Sam. If you love Shaun, if you  _don't_  want me, we can forget last night ever happened.”

He rose to his full height from the sofa, a bit wobbly, his head still hazy with sleep. She saw by the look in his eye that he’d never recover from this if she asked that of him. If she wanted Shaun.  _Malcolm wouldn't be okay._ Because she really was the love of his life, the one who kept him grounded, happy, and hopeful. The one who he wanted to protect and love for the rest of his days. The one he wanted to fucking  _annoy_ till the end of his days.

A few minutes later, as he came from the loo fully dressed and a bit more awake, she cast a look his way. He was heading for the door and she said over a delicate shoulder, “I'll call you later. Or maybe tomorrow.”

_Why did it feel like a goodbye? As if there would be no call later?_

He left, of course, but didn’t leave with a smile. He left with quite a fucking scowl, once he was out of the front door and fixing his tie. He felt miserable. He felt _hollow._ He felt like he knew  _exactly_ what he was losing, and there wasn’t a thing he couldn’t do about it.


	6. Unexpected Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of everything, Jamie pays Malcolm a visit. They have a chat and talk about some rather important things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback means everything to me, guys. It really does. Thank you. Also, you're gonna start seeing some old faces again in this story.

A few days droned and rolled on by. He counted every one of them, like he always did whenever they were apart. Malcolm was visited by Julius Nicholson, the latter’s attempt to keep his rear-fucking-end out of the mud. Malcolm was ruthless, really, about the whole ordeal. Still, the slippery fuck that washed up on his doorstep one late afternoon had been close to begging and it drove Malcolm to find within himself a shred of decency. In fact, he’d tucked it away for days when he might just _need_ it for this sort of thing. Who knows.

“What do you fucking want, exactly? You asking me to put my fucking gun down, or what?”

It was a long, arduous conversation. Julius wanted to be left out of Malcolm’s memoirs, whenever they were to be released, and he wanted to be let off the hook on the man’s online column. A small request, he’d said. Yet it felt like a terrible fucking one. A _huge_ one.

He told Julius to fuck the fuck off, that he’d think about it and call him later in the week, that he didn’t deserve his good whisky, and then he sent a text to Jamie McDonald, who had plans to visit the next day. It had, after all, been so long since they’d seen one another. But in the months since he’d been released from prison, the other Scot had made an effort to rekindle their old friendship, all Number Ten matters set aside.

As far as Malcolm could see, the younger man _missed_ their camaraderie and friendship and was contrite enough to genuinely apologize for the falling out they’d had years prior.

_Things were beginning to look up._

There was only one thing missing — _Sam._

Later in the day, he had some flowers sent to her small, cozy flat with a note that read:

**_Sorry for being such a dimwitted fucktwat. I hope you’re doing alright. I miss you more than words could ever really say._ **

**_Malcolm x_ **

The day passed by painfully slowly. He tidied up his flat, even cleaned up the kitchen and took his electric kettle apart to wash it. Then he put on a pot of Italian meat sauce for pasta later on in the evening. Some he’d freeze, some he’d leave in his refrigerator.

Truthfully, it still felt a little bit odd to be out of prison. To be on his own schedule. To be recovering from that over-worldly experience. And if he never mentioned some of the things that had happened to him on the inside, then that was okay too.

He was _home._ That’s what mattered.

The belly rang at about two in the afternoon and he rushed off to answer it, kitchen towel still in hand from attending to the sauce on simmer on his electric stove.

“Oi, smells fucking amazing in here,” Jamie said as he came inside, Malcolm’s hand on the knob to hold the door for the other Scot. “Did you turn into a fucking Master Chef after you left the side og the Wrong and Dishonorable Ben Miller? Wouldn’t fucking put it past you.”

They both laughed, sharing a brief but friendly hug, before wandering further into his flat. Inevitably, an hour or so later, _the question_ came.

“How’s Sam? You haven’t even mentioned her since I got here.”

Malcolm turned to cast a look the younger man’s way, sat at his kitchen table with a bamboo cutting board, expensive cheese and a spicy fucking pepperoni between them. He swished his wine, glowered at the dark crimson liquid inside, and simpered for a moment before daring to answer.

“She’s fine,” Malcolm said quietly, as if to warn Jamie not to delve any deeper on the subject of her well-being. As if his bloody eyebrows weren’t already doing the job well enough for him.

Jamie sobered. “Oh, I know that face,” he replied. “What’d you do, you great cunt? Is she alright?”

 _Of course_ Jamie would fail to heed such an obvious warning. He trudged along, like he always had, the stupid Scotsman that he was. He did, however, offer Malcolm a sympathetic smile. Any ill will the latter might have held in that moment, or any sullen, disgusting curses that were about to fall from his lips, suddenly dissolved at that single look. He even softened momentarily.

Faltering for a moment, Malcolm allowed himself a sigh. Then he cast a look towards his friend. _“She’s_ just fine. Don’t you worry about her, mate. She’ll be alright. She always is. Too strong for her own good, yeah?”

Jamie took stock of the man’s expression, his mannerisms, and the way he was swishing his wine around a Bordeaux wineglass. Something expensive, like a Chateau Cantemerle red blend. It smelled fucking fantastic.

With a sigh, Jamie asked, “Are _you_ alright, mate? I hesitate to even fucking ask. ‘Cause I knew what your answer’ll be. Same as it always is.” For a moment, they sat there together in silence. Then Malcolm chuckled. “I’m fine,” he eventually said in affirmation.

If something was going on between he and Sam, Jamie knew better than to ask. He always knew the two of them belonged together, in more than a friendly sense, but the business they were in disallowed that notion. Not to mention the fact that they had an age difference. Malcolm had a complex about him, a predetermined notion that any relationship he got himself into had to be with someone he absolutely fucking despised because he knew they would stab him in the back in the end. _But it didn’t always have to be that way._

For a moment, Jamie’s eyes fell to the golden wedding band on the man’s hand. It was Malcolm’s father’s — a reminder that good relationships were hard to come by and Jamie knew that much. Malc’s parents had worked out, yes, but only with years of hardship and struggles. But they did it all together. Always. Jamie remembered them fondly. Good-hearted people, they were.

Jamie sighed deeply, a hand rising to rub at his weary eyes. “Look,” he finally said, “I just wanna see you happy, alright? I know you two love each other. Everyone fucking knows. The Queen probably fucking knows.”

Malcolm started, nearly spilling wine on the white Kiton button down he was wearing. His jaw fell slack for a moment as well before he recovered. But before he could form a quip, Jamie was speaking again.

“We’ve been through a lot of shite, you and I, right? I’ve seen your ups and downs and all-fucking-arounds and I know for a fact, despite what you might think, that you’ve bled yerself dry for this terrible fucking country, er… _cuntry_  is more like it… and you deserve to be happy. You deserve it, Malcolm F. Tucker. Why deny yourself?”

Malcolm chuckled, dimly aware of the sudden warmth on his clean-shaven cheeks. “Thanks for the fucking speech, Sir William Wallace. But this isn’t about _me,_ right? It’s about _her._ I’ve made up my fucking mind already. Now she has to do the same. She’s with someone. She needs to decide if it’s me she still wants, or him.”

Jamie’s expression fell. He was, if nothing else, utterly astounded. “Aye, maybe,” he said in response. “But something else happened, right? I can tell. You're holding out on me.”

Malcolm didn’t screw around anymore. No need to. He could beat around the fucking bush until his knuckles went bruised and bloody, but Jamie knew him too well. So, instead of fibbing, he merely said, “We slept together. It was… sort of an accident. Haven’t talked to her since.” He took a deep breath. “Even fucking sent her flowers this morning. Don’t you dare laugh.”

Jamie, ever the poetic one, said, “How does one accidentally slip his cock into a lass? Like, whoops, sorry I fell on you _and_ my cock slipped in? My bad. Right. I’ll send flowers to apologize. Is that how it happened, or?”

Malcolm allowed himself a deep breath. “Easy there, mate. Or I’ll fucking glass you.” There wasn’t anything behind the threat, really. They were just words. Words and words and words. Just shite-talking between old friends.

“Dunno,” Malcolm said quietly. “Some bloke smacked her arse, or grabbed it, and she decked him in the gob. Guid girl. That’s our Sam. So, I heard about it from a hack who shoved a fucking recorder in me face. Wanted to shove the damn thing up his arse. I’m sure my face was quite a fucking sight. After, I went to her flat, asked her about it, and we just sort of started kissing. One thing led to another. Woke up the next morning and we said goodbye. She told me she’d call me, too, and hasn’t. That’s the story. What more do you fucking want?”

Jamie sipped at his wine, looking all-too-thoughtful before eventually daring to speak. “You even spent the night? Fucking fantastic. Did you two cuddle? I bet you cuddled.”  
  
The next thing Jamie knew, there was a slice of smoked salami flying at his big head. And _that_ was the end of that conversation.


	7. I Will Try to Fix You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm gets an email one night. Things suddenly change, and quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, loves. So many faithful readers, I'm honored. I suppose I hadn't realized before that people were genuinely following this story. You guys commenting and saying kind stuff is what keeps me going. Honestly. It drives me to write more and upload stuff faster. Thank you. That being said, I'm terribly sorry that my life has been a bit batty and I haven't written much fanfic as of late. I've got a lot of Whouffaldi oneshots to write as well. And maybe some Harley/Joker oneshots to do, too. But, I love you guys. Thank you so much for being so wonderful. Let me know what you thought of this chapter. I'm sorry it's on the shorter side this time. Stay cool. Cheers.

Malcolm had his life in order. If anyone were to ask him, he would most certainly say that. He would tell them to bugger off and accept his answer at that. Accept his answer for what it was. And yet he counted the days in which there came no response from the only one he wanted.

He counted every day. It became a habit.

Finally, it came. As an email.

**_Malcolm,_ **

**_I’ve been out of town. But thank you for the flowers. Something came up. My mother’s been really sick. I had to bring her to the hospital (what an ordeal that was) and I’ll eventually have her put in a retirement home. Can’t take care of her myself, you know. Too much. She’s wheelchair bound now these days. Bad hip and all. Why are mothers so much work?_ **

**_But anyways, I just wanted to thank you for the flowers and see how you were doing. Call me when you’re free. We should talk._ **

**_Sam x_ **

A few moments later there came another email, landing in his inbox with a loud _pop_ sound notification. He immediately reached for his laptop to see the message, his chest tightening as he read the words.

**_Malc,_ **

**_For the record, I miss you too._ **

**_S x_ **

A soft sigh fell from his lips in that moment. “Do what you always do,” he told himself quietly. “Bury the fucking ache and pretend it doesn't matter.”

He was _too used_ to doing that. She wasn’t just _some lass._ She was Samantha Cassidy and he loved her with everything that he had in him. It happened slowly, falling in love with her. He was no longer her boss, no longer held back by any kind of professional obligation to keep her safe or to keep her career from going down the fucking pipes over at Number 10. She was finally safe. She could do what she wanted. And so could he.

As long as he was back in a position of power, as far as the government was concerned. His column was a threat to anyone he’d come across in all his long years, working in the line of fire, being around politicians, sweeping up the shite and mopping up the piss.

The Dark Knight of Downing Street had a purpose again. Political Jenga is what it all felt like and perhaps he enjoyed it that way. But he was in a position to help or hurt the current government and the terror everyone felt made him feel powerful again.

His computer dinged again with another email.

**_Malc,_ **

**_I love you._ **

**_I just needed to say that. I love you and only you and it’s fucking killing me._ **

**_Please call me. Tonight._ **

**_S x_ **

His breath caught in his throat and he had to read the message a few times over, just to be sure that his old eyes weren’t acting up on him tonight, before he could even react.

A trembling hand reached for his discarded cell phone, the battery freshly charged. He unplugged it, finding her contact information in his phone and hitting “call” on the screen. He listened as it rang and rang and rang. And then she answered it.

“That was fast,” she said softly. “Hi, Malcolm.”

Pathetically, he swallowed. “You asked me to call,” he said suddenly. He didn’t know what else to say. His throat felt like it was closing up. “How’s your mam? She doing okay?”

She sighed softly, obviously distraught at the memories his question roused. “My mum’s doing alright. Relatively speaking. I hated having to leave her. My dad’s with her, though. He’s doing what he can. It’ll be okay.”

He fell silent for a moment. It was Sam who broke the icy quiet that befell them, speaking softly and earnestly. “You saw my email, Malcolm. I meant what I said. I do love you, and I left Shaun. I broke things off with him. I’m sorry I hadn’t done it sooner. I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do.” She paused for a moment. “Malcolm, please say something. I need to know you’re feeling.”

He breathed out a deep sigh. “You should know how I’m feeling. I thought I made it perfectly clear the morning I left your flat. I want this, Sam. I want _you._ No more denying it now. It’s always been _you.”_

There was a brief pause before she began speaking again, responding to him. “Malcolm, I need to tell you something. And it’s been true all these years. I never… _realized_ how much I loved you until you were in prison. Until I was faced with _why_ I was feeling so terrible over everything. Until it… really hit me. You know that, don’t you? That I love you?”  
  
He smiled. It was such a little thing, bright and fading fast, but it was real and honest and he felt so very, very in love in that moment. “I was worried for a while,” he confessed quietly, brogue softer and thicker than usual. “But I know. I know you love me, too.” He almost fell silent, but he made himself continue. “I fucking love you, too. I’d ask you to come over, if you’d like to, but it’s so late. Maybe tomorrow, love?”

When they finally said their goodbyes and hung up for the night, it felt _good._ It felt right. They were, he supposed, going to try being together.

Things had to start looking up one day, didn’t they? They both had respectable jobs and good paychecks and good things coming in life. They could do this. He wasn’t some washed up Director of Communications. No, he wasn’t Steve Flemming. He was _making something_ out of his life, and she needed to be by his side. She said as much. And he agreed.

Life was about to get _much_ better. Or so he thought.

Little did he know what was happening across the city to the monumental fuckup named Benjamin Swain. Because that, well — that would haunt him. Not that he would know until it was too late. He’d already turned his telly off, settled into bed for the night. Alone, of course, and wishing Sam was beside him.


	8. The Shocking Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm receives some very bad news when a Detective Constable pays a visit to his office at In The Loop's headquarters.

That morning, as Malcolm rose in the morning to shower and get ready for the day ahead of him, he noticed his phone blinking. It was just a text from Sam, but he couldn’t help the smile that found his lips.

**_Hope you have a good day._ **

**_I’d like to see you tonight._ **

**_S x_ **

He showered and slipped on a fresh, clean suit before replying to her, taking his time and leaning against the counter in his kitchen whilst typing away.

**_Same to you._ **

**_See you tonight?_ **

**_Call me when you get out of work._ **

**_M x_ **

He felt a bit too giddy to send that message but it wasn’t as if he could help himself, now could he? He felt hopeful about his future for the first time in ages.

He left a short while later, heading out of his flat to go to the office — to the HQ for _In the Loop,_ where he (oddly enough) enjoyed working now — and he even bothered to stop for breakfast. He needed to eat _more often,_ he knew, but he couldn’t quite force himself to do it. Today was different, though. He was _happier._

Those months spent in prison had left him thinner than a rake and lankier than he’d ever been, which was a feat in and of itself. But, now, he was finally beginning to gain a bit of weight back. Must have been all the Fanta and takeaway. Either way, he needed it.

“Good morning, little chicks and cocks,” he said with amusement as he stepped into the office building and strode down the hallway. "Daddy's in."

“Oh, Malcolm, wait,” came the voice of a particularly… _less annoying_ underling. Nicholas Davidson was a short man with round cheeks and a good work ethic. He just frowned upon all the cursing his Scottish colleague. Not that he ever dared to voice that opinion, mind.

Malcolm’s eyebrows rose expectantly and he waited. Whatever it was that was coming seemed a bit _worrisome._ Nicholas was practically trembling. “Nick—” He sighed. “Tell me already. What the fuck is it?”

He swallowed. “There’s a Detective Constable in your office. Said he needs to speak to you and ask you a few questions about where you were last night.”

Now _that_ had not been expected. Malcolm’s stomach nearly hit the floor. His first thought was for Sam. Was she alright? But then he remembered everything else Nicholas had said, mentioning his whereabouts the night before. What did that _even_ mean? Had something happened and Sam neglected to tell him so?

Without uttering a single word, Malcolm strode towards his office and gently pulled open the door. It was a bit barren as far as big offices go. But then again, he was barely ever in the building. Most of his work he could do from home. He only came in once or twice a week, which was perfectly fine with all of the other journalists he worked with.  

“Ah, Mr. Tucker,” the man said, reaching out a polite hand for a gentle shake. “The man you work for, a Mr. Timothy Clarke, told me that I could wait in your office. I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

Malcolm felt as if he was sweating bullets. He gave the Constable an uneasy smile while shedding his coat and scarf, setting aside his laptop and briefcase upon a desk. “It’s quite alright. What can I do for you, Detective Constable? Has something happened?”

He was, at the moment, quite impressed with his ability to curb his cursing. If only Sam was around to witness such a thing. _Quite impressive._

“Unfortunately, around three o’clock this morning a man we believe to be named Benjamin Swain was found dead in an alleyway in Hackney. The ME placed the time of death around eight o’clock last night. CID cannot disclose the cause of death at a time like this but I _can_ say that it was most definitely not from any self-inflicted wounds and it’s been upped to a murder case. We’re looking for suspects, or any information that might help us at the moment.”

Malcolm went paler than a ghost. Shock washed over him, followed by relief to know that Sam was perfectly alright. Then guilt, of course, to know the man was gone.

“He was married,” Malcolm said, sounding surprisingly Human for all of a few seconds. “I think he might have had a kid, too. He used to ramble about her. Oh, god. What the fuck happened?”

The Constable’s brows rose, although he wasn’t entirely surprised. Almost everyone knew Malcolm Tucker from the news years passed, and even now. He had a reputation for being angry and sweary. It wasn’t news.

“He had a six-year-old daughter and a wife, yes. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt the man? Did anyone have a grudge against him?” And then, a moment later, he asked, “Wasn’t Mr. Swain at your trial? Do you remember anything?”  
  
_The trial._ Of course. It washed over Malcolm in seconds. He was soon to be a suspect. Swain was ruthless as a witness in Malcolm’s trial. Fuck.

_Fucking fuck._

“Not that I can think of, no,” Malcolm said quietly. “But, death threats are a part of our lives in the political world, Constable. It’s a merciless world to live in. I can’t count the amount of times Ministers came to me, worried for their lives. I would always tell them to seek out the police.” _That was a fucking lie. He always told them to get lost._ Same difference.

“And as for myself,” Malcolm continued, “I never would have laid a finger on the man. That part of my life is over. I’m happy now, where I am. Because I _print_ something doesn’t necessarily mean I’m out with a vendetta against certain individuals. I work for a political column. We’re in the business of back-stabbing. But  _I_ never laid a finger on him.”

The Constable looked a bit suspicious. “Well, as long as we’re on the subject, Mr. Tucker, where were you last night between the hours of seven and nine o’clock? Can anyone account for your whereabouts?”

A bit affronted, Malcolm stood his ground and crossed two long arms over his chest. “I was home,” he replied. “Home with a box of takeaway and my computer, editing a few articles which I’m to publish today.” He snorted to himself. “... If I get the time to do so.”

_Right. Good job, Malcolm. You knob. Get rude with the fucking Detective Constable._

He had to rein himself in, sighing quietly. “I’m sorry,” he eventually said. “I’m just tired. I’m tired and a bit stressed with all that I need to do today. I did _not_ lay a finger on Ben Swain. While it’s no lie that I didn’t like the man, I _never_ would have hurt him. That’s the truth.”

He went fishing through his wallet for the receipt from his takeaway, not that it did all that much good. It couldn’t solidify his alibi. But, the thought was there. The Constable softened a bit, looking over the time stamp and handing the sheet of paper back to the Scot.

The Constable began to put away his notepad, sighing softly and tucking his coat around him. He worked his buttons closed as he spoke. “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me, Mr. Tucker. We’ll be in touch. And thank you for your honesty. It’s refreshing these days.”

Malcolm watched the man walk off before pulling out his phone to text Sam, deliberating on what exactly to say.

**_Just had a DC at the office._ **

**_Apparently someone killed Ben Swain last night._ **

**_Wonder who would bother with someone like him._ **

**_Call me when you’re free._ **

**_M x_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys. I'm slowly getting back into writing again. RL hasn't been particularly easy lately.


	9. High Up on the Food Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds herself in Malcolm's office. She just needs to see him and make sure he's alright.

The call came an hour or so later. She was frantic and desperate and grasping at answers. Someone had been _murdered._ He couldn’t really blame her. The only discernible thing that came from her lips was a soft, _“I need to see you. Right now. Today.”_

He was in the middle of reading over a huge story he was going to publish but, nevertheless, he said back, “Why don’t you come meet me? I’m up to my fucking scrotum in articles that need publishing today. I’m sorry, pet. Meet me at my office. I’ll see you tonight, too. Maybe we can go out somewhere, just you and me.”

She nodded imperceptibly, even though she couldn’t see it. “I’ll take my lunch a little early. I’ll see you soon.” They said their goodbyes and hung up, eventually. An uncomfortable silence filled his office, save for the buzzing of his laptop on charge and the beep of his phone alerting him of a text message. He didn’t care to read the latter, however. Not right now.

Malcolm tossed the phone aside, covering his face with his hands and trying to relax for a long, tremulous moment. It began to sink in then. _Someone had murdered Ben Swain._

What on fucking Earth were they all going to do? It seemed that no matter how he how hard they all tried, no one could outrun their past. Who knew what Mr. Swain was doing for a living, but it had fuck all to do with government. Malcolm had eviscerated him and ruined him for his career years ago.

One by one, the calls began pouring in. Julius Nicholson was the first to call him, then Jamie MacDonald and Ollie Reeder. Terri Coverley, Fatty, and Angela Heaney only heard his voicemail. The whole fucking Piss Brigade rang him up. He knew _nothing_ and they were all looking for _something._

It was a precarious position for the ex-Master of Spin to be in. He still knew how to spin himself a web, though. A great big fat fucking web of lies. He told everyone that he wasn’t allowed to share any information, not that he had any to begin with. They weren’t privy to that, though. They didn’t need to be.

The higher up on the food chain they thought Malcolm F. Tucker was, the better (and the safer he was).

After he’d finished up some work, there came a knock at the door. Nicholas Davidson popped his head inside, eyes on Malcolm as he spoke. “There’s a woman here to see you, a Miss Cassidy. Shall I let her in?”

Despite the shit-storm that was going on at the moment, Malcolm smiled. What a rarity it was. Davidson’s brows furrowed in surprise. “Let her in,” Malcolm said with a gentle nod. “If you would, please.” Another rarity: _please._ Davidson left quietly without another word.

Moments later Sam came wandering in. She shut the door behind her and closed the blinds, rushing over to him and all but launching herself into his arms. “How can you just be fucking casually working when there’s a murderer out there somewhere?”

Malcolm’s hand rose to cup the back of her head, eyes closing as she held him tightly. “I’m not,” he said softly. “Not casually, anyway. But I had things to do. The workday doesn’t end for me just because someone piece of shite’s dead.”

There was a fire in her eyes as she drew back the tiniest bit to see his features. “Malcolm,” she chided him. “Don’t say that. Have some respect. He’s _dead.”_

Malcolm deflated at the look she was giving him. He always had, truth be told. She knew _just how_ to get under his skin, or scold him when he was being a complete arsehole. “He’s half the reason I landed in prison for a whole eight months, you know. And he fucking took pleasure in it. I can’t help it if I’m still a little fucking bitter.”

She sat down in his lap, hands placed at his shoulders. “Don’t you understand? They’re going to immediately add you to the list of suspects.” His brows furrowed again. It was a possibility he’d considered already, but to hear her say it shattered something inside of him.

“If it happened last night like everyone’s said, thankfully you have an alibi,” she said to him. He waited, a questioning expression on his features. “I was home alone,” he answered, finally.

She pressed a finger to his lips and began speaking. “You were emailing me. You called me. We spoke. There are these nifty things called _phone records._ And they could check your emails to see the timestamps.”

Immediately, Malcolm began shaking his head at that. “Doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I’m not going to let them know about _us._ I won’t let them read those emails. If they _do,_ you become my weakness. A chink in my armor. You’ll become a target by the media. All the cunts will rush after you. I’m on top right now with my fucking online column. They’ll tear you apart. Everything will be seen by the public. Open investigation and all that jazz.”

With a sigh, he continued. “It’s all over the telly. Have you been watching the fucking news? Nothing about this entire fucking thing will remain private. He was killed in an _alley._ How fucking undignified. That’s what the Detective Constable told me. A fucking _alleyway._ Must have been shanked or something like fucking that. How fucking _American.”_

She laughed then, but it wasn’t a jovial sound. It something akin to heartbreak. Anger, too. She was upset. That much was fairly obvious. She always _smiled_ when she was _really angry._

She took his face in her petite hands, drawing him to her for a long, slow kiss. It surprised him, but he melted into it. His hand found her thigh to hold her close and he sighed against her lips. “You don’t get it, do you?” she murmured to him. “I’m stronger _with_ you. We need to tell the police about this. They’re going to ask anyway. They’ll probably bring you down the station, when the time finally comes. Whenever that may be. If they don’t immediately find whatever fucking psychopath did this. They’ll interrogate you. Doesn’t that hit a bit too close to home for you?”

Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder for a little while before she dared to speak up again, speculating aloud. “What if it was just a robbery gone wrong? I don’t know how he died, but… what if that’s all it was? I wonder exactly what happened.”  
  
The only other option was far too terrifying. That someone had targeted poor Mr. Swain on purpose. That someone had possibly followed him. Why would someone kill him? Why? And if that was the case, were they planning on killing anyone else? Was Malcolm a possible target as well? What was the purpose of all this?

“Stop thinking too hard about all this,” he said to her, breaking the eerie silence that had fallen between them. “It’ll be alright, I promise.” His hand began to stroke her back, sighing inaudibly as she _finally_ began to relax against him.

Hopefully this mess would all be sorted out soon enough.


	10. Personal Vendettas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm can already feel his newly self-built throne begin to crumble apart.

“Malcolm Tucker,” came the annoying, creepy voice of one Steve Fleming. Flemmy. Phlegmmy. That’s how Malcolm felt about it all. Phlegmmy.

“What do you fucking want?” Malcolm asked, from behind his desk, where he was sat comfortably drinking the very remnants of a can of Fanta and finishing off a sandwich for what passed as a quick lunch. Sam’s idea, anyway. Health nut that she was. 

“A little birdy told me that the Detective Constable came to visit you,” Steven said, slowly, and flashed a grin. He was in an overcoat and scarf, still looking as slimy as ever. There was less hair on that shiny fucking head of his, though. Malcolm was oh so tempted to comment on the loss of hair, but he decided against it.  _ Too much fucking work to even crack a joke. _

A beat or two passed by as Malcolm finished his sandwich, taking in the other man’s stance and the fact that he was holding something in his hand, as well as a briefcase.  _ Briefcase?  _ He was wearing a badge, too. Very telling.Trying to get into Shadow Cabinet as a Senior Advisor, then, eh? Still consulting. Advising. Lying and spinning. Still  _ trying so hard  _ to be what Malcolm had always been better at. _ Communications Director. Spin Doctor. Chief Whip-to-Be for Opposition. _

“How did the meeting go with the DC, anyway?” 

He never shut up, at all, did he? 

Malcolm sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from tossing a stapler at the fucker, or even worse. Right about now, he’d love to shove a fucking pen through the man’s eye socket. Wouldn’t that be just fucking lovely? 

Eventually, Malcolm asked, “Who even let you into the building? This is a private media building. Who’s cock did you diligently fellate, hm?” His voice was practically dripping with disdain. “Then again, I suppose that’s the only way you’ll get any, isn’t it? You desperate, pitiful fuck.” 

All that Malcolm saw was bliss on the other man’s face, along with arrogance, even if his eyes flashed anger for a moment. He came over, dropped a folder on Malcolm’s desk and said, “Merry Christmas, Malcolm Tucker. I just came by to show this to you so you’ll see it. I wanted to see your expression when you opened it. The Guardian has an entire story to back this little beauty up. There’s no one left that you can blackmail over there before it’s printed, so don’t even worry. Don’t bother trying. You’re a toothless tiger now,  _ mate.” _

He walked away, ambling towards the door, as Malcolm fingers ghosted over the manila folder and flipped the cover open. It was a grainy picture of both he and Ben, with his finger dangerously in Ben’s face. It was recent, too. 

There had been only one meeting between them since Malcolm’s incarceration. It was to do with Malcolm’s spiteful writing on the column about him. Ben wasn’t happy. He came to try and entice Malcolm to shift the focus onto others, and off of him. It was, simply put, an unsuccessful undertaking.

_ It happened once.  _ But once was all you needed. The picture looked fucking awful. Malcolm looked feral and angry, yelling at the washed up minister on the sidewalk outside of  _ In The Loop’s  _ offices. And all be fucking damned if he couldn’t make out the throbbing vein in his pale forehead.  _ Fuck.  _

_ “Fuck you,” _ Malcolm spat angrily. “No one’s going to run with this. There’s no fucking story to tell. I didn’t do a fucking thing to that fat cunt. I didn’t kill him, someone else did. You and I might hate each other, but you should fucking know better than that.” 

Fleming was already walking away. Over a shoulder he said, “I hope you didn’t get too comfortable at home again. You’ll be back in prison before you know it.” Before he could run, there was a wad of sticky notes tossed his way. He dodged them, however, and let them fall to the office floor as he stepped out into the hallway. 

“Fuck you!” Malcolm screamed at his retreating back. But the moment he was left alone, he covered his face with a hand. It already felt like the world was closing in on him. He was  _ not  _ going to prison for this. He didn’t even  _ do  _ anything. But the thought… 

Steven Fleming hated him. He was  _ glad  _ when he went to prison. He would never,  _ ever  _ get over the petty feud between them, even if it was only  _ personal _ now and not  _ career-related.  _

Later that evening, Malcolm did the only thing he could do. He called the Detective Constable. There was no answer, though. He left a voicemail, and after a few hours, decided it best to head home. He couldn’t wait all night for a call back. He would do as Sam wanted, though, and tell them everything. 

There was no other option at this point. He could only do damage control when the news hit the papers about their love affair. 

It scared him. The thought that Sam would be a target now frightened him. 

His life was vastly different than it had been years and years ago. An Advisor and Director of Communications was the man behind the scene. He hid away, spinning news and making sure ministers were doing what they should be, fixing their mistakes, mopping up and piss puddles. But now,  _ now  _ he was constantly in the media with his blog and the career in journalism that he had sought to create for himself. He was  _ recreating  _ himself. He was no longer in the shadows. And with that change, came arrows flung in his direction and aimed right at his heart. Everyone wanted to take him down. The nasty, scary ex-Spin Doctor for the Labour Party was a target for  _ everyone  _ now.

If anyone came after Sam, though, and labeled her as a chink in his armor, he would go fucking insane. He would lose his mind. She was off-limits. Surely the details of the investigation would  _ eventually  _ be made public, even if it wasn’t until the investigation ceased and the murderer was found. What would he do, then? 

He had no idea what was to come. He only knew one thing. He couldn’t face it without Sam by his side. And even more unbelievable, that’s right where she wanted to be. They’d face it all together, whatever was to come. 


End file.
